


Your Mouth Is Poison (Your Mouth Is Wine)

by elizaye



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Drama, Emotionally Repressed, Flashbacks, Lack of Communication, M/M, Melodrama, Minor Character Death, Painter Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-28
Updated: 2014-01-28
Packaged: 2018-01-10 07:47:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1156983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizaye/pseuds/elizaye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was a time when just sitting beside Dean filled Castiel with happiness, contentment.</p><p>That time has gone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Mouth Is Poison (Your Mouth Is Wine)

Castiel sits on a stool, straightens the canvas on his easel. It’s still blank, still waiting to be filled with something, something _meaningful_ , but Castiel hasn’t decided on its subject.

People walk past him. Maybe a third of them lean over a bit, hoping to see some sort of a work in progress, and continue on their way when they see that he hasn’t started yet. They must think that the subject of his painting is the church across the street from him.

Castiel had thought that, too.

He saw it yesterday, when he went on that walk to clear his mind. The church had looked beautiful, ethereal, sunlight shining from behind it, large trees framing it on either side, and Castiel had taken the time to figure out where he should set up his canvas, where he would get the best angle.

Today, it’s just a building. Just like any other building.

Meaningless.

Castiel doesn’t know what’s changed, doesn’t think he understands, but he doesn’t have that feeling in his fingers, that jittery feeling that means he’s ready to paint, ready to create.

It’s been too long since he had that feeling. That inspiration.

Sighing, Castiel gets to his feet, folds up his stool and his easel, and heads home.

* * *

_They’re young and ambitious and foolishly in love, intoxicated by and fascinated with each other, and it only makes sense that they’d want to leave this place, leave this sleepy city full of retiring people and seek out a place to call their own._

_Dean goes to college, and Castiel works at a local coffee shop, selling paintings on the side. They rent an apartment within walking distance of both locations, and things are perfect._

_They have their fights, of course. Their first real quarrel is about whether or not Castiel is allowed to keep a stray cat (he keeps it despite Dean’s disapproval, but he catches Dean cooing and petting little Bonham when he thinks Castiel isn’t looking, so he figures it’s a win)._

_During every finals week, Castiel cooks and cleans rigorously, ensuring that Dean has a clean home and warm dinner to come home to after each test, and Dean rewards him with grateful kisses, long and slow and sweet, kisses that Castiel thinks will last forever._

_If only they could._

* * *

Dean’s not home when he gets there. Of course he isn’t—he’s busy with a job, with making enough money to fulfill “their dreams.” Meanwhile, Castiel sits at home with no painting, no inspiration. Nothing.

Meaningless.

He sets his things down in the upstairs bedroom, the one that he’d claimed as his studio when he was still painting regularly.

When he still knew how to paint.

There are a lot of works that he loves, here. Works from sunny afternoons out in the park with Dean, sunlight filtering between trees, leaves strewn about the ground. Works from rainy nights, memories of Dean standing behind him with an umbrella, both their teeth chattering despite their large winter coats, people giving them funny looks as they hurried past.

One still life, framed and not for sale, never for sale, hangs on the wall opposite his work station.

It’s Dean, lying still on their bed, eyes closed in rest. A sliver of moonlight illuminates part of his face and chest, the rest covered by wrinkled sheets, shadowed in the dim room.

Castiel steps over to the painting now, kept behind glass, and brings his fingers up to touch it, touch the cool, smooth, transparent surface separating him from his work. From Dean. It’s funny how fitting that is, given their current situation, except that it’s not funny at all.

He hears the front door open and close, hears Dean’s briefcase hitting the dining table, hears the refrigerator open and then close.

He remembers a time when Dean calling out for him— _honey, I’m home!_ —was normal, was expected.

Now, it’s something he hopes for, but without any real hope.

* * *

_Dean graduates and gets a job at some firm as an accountant—or something like that—because they’ll need to have some money saved up to make the move._

_They’re almost ready to leave for the west coast, and Castiel is as excited as he is terrified, because this town is all he’s ever known, but he’s willing to leave it all behind for the look in Dean’s eyes, the curve of his smile when he talks about the beach, about the sun and surf. Castiel lets himself be swept along in Dean’s enthusiasm, lets it carry him past the fear and dread that threaten to root him in the ground._

_And then John gets sick. Very sick._

_Castiel goes with Dean when they get the call, and they find him in a hospital bed, hooked up to all sorts of machines, machines that they don’t understand. John has enough money saved up to cover the medical bills, but they can’t possibly leave, not when he’s in that state._

_Sam wants to come home immediately when he receives the news, but John won’t hear of it, saying that he has time yet to live, and Sam’s education is more important. Dean and Castiel agree, promising Sam that they’ll look after John, because that’s what sons are for._

_Dean apologizes profusely, eyes frantic and pleading for Castiel to understand, but there’s nothing to forgive, not here, not now, and Castiel reassures Dean with his words and lips and body, reassures him that it’s all right, that they can wait._

_A small, secret part of him is relieved that they’re not going, not yet._

_Maybe time is what he needs, to get used to the idea._

* * *

“Cas! Did you make anything for dinner?”

Right. That’s what Castiel forgot to do before he left the house. He brushes his fingers over Dean’s hand, splayed out on the covers, and wishes there weren’t glass between them, wishes he could touch Dean, and he would feel it. _Really_ feel it.

“Cas! Babe, you home?” Dean shouts.

Castiel turns his back on the painting and leaves the room, making sure to shut the door as he does. “I’m here,” he says, going down the stairs and finding Dean in the kitchen, leaning against the counter. “I thought we could order in, today.”

“All right,” Dean says. He hasn’t even loosened his tie yet. Dean hates wearing ties.

“Why don’t you go upstairs and change into something more comfortable, and I’ll make the call?” Castiel suggests.

“Yeah, okay,” Dean says, walking past Castiel and toward the stairs.

Their shoulders brush, but Castiel doesn’t think he feels it. It’s like he and Dean aren’t even in the same place anymore. Like they exist in the same time and place, but can’t connect anymore. Like there’s an invisible, intangible, impenetrable glass wall between them, trapping them on opposite sides.

* * *

_John gets worse, becomes pale and weak, and Castiel quits his job at the coffee shop so that he’ll have time to look after him because Dean’s job is the main source of their income, anyway. He paints pictures of the world outside and brings them to hang in John’s room, to give him something to look at._

_Something to hope for._

_Dean’s grateful for Castiel and thanks him in all the ways he can, even though there’s no need for thanks in this situation. Dean’s father is Castiel’s father._

_Weeks drag into months, then years, and Dean and Castiel move out of their crappy apartment into a small two-story house, with two bedrooms upstairs and one downstairs. Castiel claims the small room upstairs as his studio, pleased that it faces west because he’s always loved looking at the sunset._

_They’re just getting comfortable in this life, their house feeling more lived-in, and Castiel is starting to think that he doesn’t have to worry about moving, about leaving, when he gets the call about John._

_The one that says John’s dead._

_Dean goes quiet for a day or two, and Castiel comforts him the best way he knows how, making sure he takes care of himself, making sure he gets some time off from his job to grieve._

_And then life goes on. Except that Dean’s renewed his dream of leaving, and Castiel’s anxiety returns, this time with less excitement. Dean’s enthusiasm has slipped away, become less infectious, turned into something more like determination, and Castiel thinks that that frightens him just as much as leaving his home does._

_But he can’t deny Dean his dream, not when it seems to be the only thing keeping him motivated, so he keeps his mouth shut, keeps his fears to himself._

_He hides his favorite painting behind the door of his studio so that he doesn’t have to look at it._

* * *

They sit down across from each other at the dinner table, Chinese takeout spread out between them, and Dean smiles at Castiel, but it feels insincere. Castiel manages a small smile in return and searches for words, searches in vain, because they have nothing left to talk about.

Dean digs in, head bowed, and Castiel is as relieved as he is hurt—relieved that he doesn’t have to try for conversation, hurt that Dean isn’t even bothering to try anymore.

Afterwards, Castiel clears the table while Dean goes over to the living room and turns on the television. Castiel joins him later, curling up on the couch with a book in his lap, but he doesn’t get any reading done, too aware of the warmth coming from Dean’s side, warmth that doesn’t feel like enough anymore.

There was a time when just sitting beside Dean filled Castiel with happiness, contentment.

That time has gone.

Castiel gets to his feet, sets the book down on the coffee table, and turns to leave. Dean’s hand wraps around his wrist before he can, and then they’re kissing, and Castiel realizes dimly that he can’t remember the last time they did this, the last time they lost themselves in each other, the last time they went to bed but didn’t go to sleep immediately.

They disrobe on the way upstairs to their bedroom, losing articles of clothing as they go, and it’s desperate, wanting, but with none of the _feeling_ that it used to have. It’s like they’re hanging by a thread, trying to keep this alive, but it’s painful, coiling tighter until Castiel thinks he might suffocate.

Castiel falls back onto the bed, _their_ bed, legs wrapped around Dean’s waist, and holds on even though he doesn’t know what’s left to hold onto.

They kiss, and it hurts.

Hurts because it’s perfunctory, because it’s not the same, never will be the same.

Meaningless.

It’s all meaningless, and Castiel wonders what happened to them even as Dean pushes into him, wonders when they became poison to each other, killing each other slowly.

* * *

_Cas cries when Bonham dies._

_He doesn’t want Dean to find out, but Dean knows—of course he knows. Dean tries to take care of everything, but Cas tells him not to, turns his back and says that he’ll bury Bonham himself because Dean didn’t even like him, anyway._

_And well, maybe Dean never liked that damn cat, but he knows how much it mattered to Cas._

_Still, he lets Cas have some privacy in the backyard, because he and Cas have always been different people. Dean needs closeness when he’s feeling vulnerable. Cas… Cas needs space._

_So Dean sits in the kitchen and pretends not to look out the window, but he still notices the way Cas’s shoulders shake with sobs. When he comes back inside, he crawls right into Dean’s lap and stays there, and Dean just holds him, soothes his aches with kisses and soft touches._

* * *

Dean hates the silences, the space between himself and Cas.

He isn’t sure when the gulf widened up between them, turned into something that he couldn’t cross, something that he couldn’t bridge.

Cas resents him, of that much Dean is sure. Cas hates that their dream was put on hold for so long, doesn’t like that they’ve been stuck here for so long, in that house with its screwy piping and constantly malfunctioning heating system.

If Dean can just get them out of here, if he can take Cas away from here, then they could finally do all those things they’d dreamed of doing—maybe they could even take some time off, go travel the world. Dean’s saved up enough money to make the move, but he likes the company he’s working for, isn’t quite ready to just pack up and leave, not when there are other options available.

“Dean!” his boss says, startling him out of his thoughts, and he looks up, surprised.

“Yeah,” he says.

“Good news! I’m about to make some dreams come true for you, kiddo,” Chuck says, smiling widely.

“Do you mean—the transfer—”

“The San Francisco branch would love to have you on board, Dean.”

Dean’s aware that his eyes must be wide as saucers right now, no poker face to speak of, and Chuck breaks into a pleased laugh, one hand landing on Dean’s desk.

“You’re welcome,” Chuck says.

“Right—thank you,” Dean says, getting to his feet and reaching across his desk to shake his boss’s hand—this would never have happened without his recommendation. “Thank you so much.”

“Well, you let your boyfriend know when you get home, tonight,” Chuck says. “And you’d better invite me to the wedding, whenever it happens. I’ll be there.”

Dean smiles, and it feels like the first time he’s smiled in a long time. “I will. I definitely will.”

It’s quiet for a moment, and then Chuck pulls his hand back and says, “I need your official answer on my desk no earlier than tomorrow morning, and no later than Monday evening. The SF branch wants you to have the whole weekend to consider, but you can take as little as one night. Tonight.”

“Okay. Thanks again.”

Chuck just smiles.

* * *

_Cas offers to go out and get a job, but it’s obvious to Dean that he doesn’t want to. Besides, Dean makes enough to sustain them and still put away a decent amount of money into savings each month, so they’re not exactly hurting for cash._

_No, Dean tells Cas. All he needs to worry about is his art. Cas isn’t really selling much of it, but that’s not really the point, right? That’s what Cas always told him, anyway._

_Art is about expression, about freedom, about passion, and Dean wants to give Cas all of those things, wants to make sure that Cas never wants for any of them._

_Cas just smiles and says that he knows what Dean is doing for him, thanks Dean for always taking care of him. But hell, Cas has always been the one taking care of Dean—he must know that. Dean thanks Cas for taking care of him, for looking after Dad, for always being there, and Cas just tries to deny it, tries to insist that it was nothing when it was something, it was everything._

_That night, Dean fingers Cas relentlessly, sucks him down, makes him come twice before Dean even gets inside him, and when they’re finally there, joined together, Dean fucks him slow, achingly slow, whispers praise into his neck and cheeks and lips as he pushes into him._

_“God, I love you,” he breathes, and Cas responds, “I know, Dean, I know. I love you,” and Dean loses track of who he is, who Cas is._

_There’s no space between them, just two hearts beating as one, synchronized._

_“I love you.”_

_“I always will.”_

* * *

“Hey, Cas! I’m home!” Dean calls as he enters the house, but of course Cas isn’t downstairs.

He used to wait for Dean, used to time it so that he’d finish setting the table just as Dean was getting home. Shaking off the disappointment, Dean goes to put his briefcase down, but dinner’s already on the table. As the sound of Cas’s footsteps travels down from upstairs, Dean sets his briefcase on one of the chairs and turns, leaning against the table to wait.

“Cas, I’ve uh, got some good news,” Dean says, smiling.

“Oh?” Cas says, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Dean can see that he doesn’t really feel it, that his eyes are still just as flatly unhappy as usual, but Dean’s gonna change all that. They’ll get better when they’re out of this place, he’s sure.

“They’ve approved my transfer to San Francisco,” Dean says, and waits for Cas to smile— _really_ smile.

But it doesn’t happen, not immediately, and Dean wonders whether or not Cas heard him.

“Babe, you heard me, didn’t you? We’re going to California!”

“I heard you,” Cas says, but there’s no brightness in his tone despite the smile that’s stretching his lips now, and Dean doesn’t understand. This isn’t how he’s supposed to react.

“What’s wrong?” Dean asks. Cas tries to walk past him to go to his seat at the dining table, but Dean catches his arm before he can escape. “Cas, wait. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I don’t want to go,” Cas says, so quietly that Dean thinks he might have heard wrong.

“ _What?_ ”

“I never wanted to go,” Cas says, louder this time, and something like anger flashes in his eyes when he looks up at Dean, wrenching his arm out of Dean’s grasp.

“What the hell are you talking about, Cas? This was our dream. Wasn’t it?” Dean says, disbelieving.

“It was _your_ dream, Dean!” Cas finally says, backing up a step when Dean moves toward him. “It was always your dream, _your_ desire to escape, _not_ mine. I don’t need to leave—I don’t _want_ to leave, and I never have.”

“Cas—”

“If you want to go, you can go. I won’t.”

Dean stares at him in shock. This house has been poison to them, hasn’t it? It’s where they spent all those years after the dream was put on hold, where they found out Dad died, where Bonham died. It all happened here, and Dean was so sure, so positive, that leaving would make things right, that starting over in a new state, a new house, would fix things between him and Cas.

“You know I can’t do that,” Dean says. “You know I can’t leave you.”

“But you have your dream. Your future. Your job in California,” Cas says, and Dean’s taken aback at the bitterness in Cas’s tone.

“Well if you didn’t wanna go, why didn’t you just _say_ something?” Dean blurts out, abruptly angry. “Why’d you let me think, for all this time, that you and I—that we wanted the same things? Why’d you let me work for something you didn’t even fucking _want?_ ”

“Because you needed it!” Cas explodes. “You needed something to hang onto, and I obviously wasn’t enough, so—”

“When were you not enough?” Dean demands, crossing the space between them, pinning Cas’s hips to the counter when he tries to get away. “When did I _ever_ say that you weren’t enough? You’re—Cas, fuck, you’re fucking _everything_ to me, and I—Jesus, how could you even _think_ that?”

“Why wouldn’t I think that? Your father was dead, and I did everything in my power to make you feel better. I—” Cas clenches his jaw, looks away. “It doesn’t matter anymore. It’s in the past.”

“Like hell, it doesn’t matter,” Dean says, glaring at Cas. “You should’ve fucking said something, Cas. I thought this was what you wanted. I thought—fuck, I thought you always resented me for putting our move to California on hold.”

Cas looks startled at that, but he says nothing, turning away immediately.

“Y’know, I could lose my job, right now. Chuck has probably already lined up a replacement for me, because he knew how much I wanted to go. Asking him to recommend me was pretty much pulling all the favors I had, so of course he knew I was gonna go if they wanted me.”

“You can still go.”

“You _know_ I fucking _can’t!_ ” Dean barks, slamming his hand against the counter, and goddamn it, he hates the way Cas flinches, but he can’t bring himself to back away, can’t bring himself to give Cas the space he always thought Cas wanted. Fuck, it’s that space that fucked this all up to begin with, isn’t it? Maybe if they’d just fucking _talked_ —

“If you had to pull so many favors, if you knew the risks, why’d you still bother?”

“Because it was our dream,” Dean says through clenched teeth.

“No, Dean, it really wasn’t,” Cas answers, and when he looks up, his eyes are shuttered, distant. He starts to walk to the side, pushing Dean’s arm out of his way, but Dean grabs onto him, not letting him pass. “Dean, let me go.”

“Cas—”

“Let me go,” Cas repeats, quiet, and Dean feels the anger drain out of him.

Cas walks away, and Dean listens to his footsteps upstairs, hears him move toward his part of the house, his studio. Dean hadn’t even realized that that was Cas’s part of the house, Cas’s only, not Dean’s. Hell, Dean’s pretty sure he hasn’t ventured there ever since they bought the place, and fuck, maybe part of their problem is that he hasn’t been looking at Cas.

No—he’s been looking at Cas plenty. He just hasn’t been _seeing_ him.

He can hardly remember the last time he watched Cas paint. He’s been too busy working in the past months, the past years, to go up there and take a look, and god, how did he ever let this happen?

* * *

_Dean gets tickets way in advance when he hears that the Mariinsky Ballet is coming to Kansas City, and he surprises Cas on the day of, getting off work early and grabbing Cas before driving out to the show._

_Cas is ridiculously happy, like he can’t even believe that Dean would do this for him, and he loves the ballet. The next evening, he shows Dean a painting that he did, saying that he was emulating the style of Degas, and Dean smiles. He doesn’t know much about painters, doesn’t know shit about Degas, but the painting is beautiful, and he tells Cas so._

_Then he reminds Cas that they’ll have even more opportunities in the future, when they go to California, because more performers go there._

_Cas smiles just as radiantly as always, but his eyes seem a little sad, and Dean curses himself for reminding Cas of their delayed plans, resolves to make the move happen as soon as possible._

_Because he loves Cas, and he wants Cas to be happy._

* * *

Late that night, Dean goes upstairs and finds Cas already in bed, fast asleep.

He wishes he could cross the room, wake Cas with a kiss, pull him close and worship him like he used to, but he doesn’t think he can. Doesn’t think Cas would let him, anyway.

Backing out of the room, he turns and sees the door to Cas’s studio, firmly shut, the way it always is.

It’s like Cas has closed it off, locked it away the same way he’s been locking himself away from Dean.

So there’s nothing left for Dean to do but go down the hall and ease the door open. He half-expects it to actually be locked, but it swings open easily, allowing him inside.

The first thing his eyes land on is a giant picture, taking up half of the opposite wall. It’s a picture of Dean, sleeping. Dean hadn’t even known Cas had painted it.

He steps into the room, slowly, looking at the numerous easels set up in all directions, some holding beautiful landscapes—beaches and sunsets and impressive mountains—and others holding cityscapes, skylines. There are a few paintings of just twisted shapes and colors, paint thrown onto canvas in dark, violent movements.

But Dean stops in front of the easel that’s been set up in the center of the room, clearly still a work in progress, probably Cas’s current project, and suddenly it becomes hard to breathe.

It’s a portrait of a crying man, colored in dark blues and purples, a whole lot of it thrown into dark shadow. It’s not anyone that Dean recognizes, too different from either Cas or himself, yet he knows, _knows_ , just from looking at it, that it’s a self-portrait.

This is Cas’s heart.

This is what Dean has done to him—what Dean has let happen to him.

He stares at it for a long time, chest aching because he doesn’t know how to fix it, doesn’t know if he even _can_. Because he should have known, should have noticed, should never have let it get this bad.

Finally, he turns away, ready to leave the room.

But he sees the corner of a tarp, peeking out from behind the open door, so he closes it, curious. Casting his eyes about the room again, he notes that this is the only canvas that’s been covered, yet it hasn’t been thrown out entirely. Why?

He pulls off the cover and sees their house, the one Dean is standing in right now. It’s painstakingly accurate, showing off the small flower garden, the lawn freshly mowed, branches of the large tree out front swaying in the wind, leaves rich and green. This was what their house looked like in the summertime.  The colors are vivid, _bright_ , and Dean can see the love that Cas put into the painting, can see how much he loves this place.

And suddenly, it all becomes so simple.

* * *

When Castiel wakes, Dean is already gone, which is normal—he has to go to work early.

Castiel lies in bed for a while longer, wishing that he hadn’t had that outburst last night. He honestly doesn’t know what Dean is going to do now, but whether he leaves or stays, he’s going to hate Castiel now. And even if Castiel agrees to go now, Dean will know how he truly feels about it.

It’s not as though they can pretend that last night never happened.

But when nine o’clock rolls around, Castiel decides that he needs to get up, if only to pour himself a cup of coffee and feel sorry for himself in the kitchen instead of in bed.

So he pulls on a pair of sweats and a hoodie before going downstairs and making himself some coffee. He goes outside and grabs the newspaper from the driveway, starting to read the headlines as he reenters the house. He sets the newspaper down on the dining table and takes a sip from his coffee, but as he does, he notices a slip of paper resting a few inches from the newspaper with only one word written on it— _Cas_.

Oh god, Dean’s left him a note.

Dreading what it might say, Castiel slowly sets down his cup and snatches up the note, flipping it over.

 _I may have wandered into your studio last night, without your permission. I’m sorry_ , Castiel reads, and he feels disappointed. If Dean had any compassion for him at all, he’d just come out and tell Castiel his decision, get all this pain over with.

Pull the bandage off quickly, as they say.

Castiel drains the rest of his cup and goes to pour another before settling into the seat with today’s newspaper.

He finishes with it a few minutes later, unable to focus on the stories it holds, and puts it aside, leaning back in his seat. He has that painting he’s still working on upstairs, and he feels an itch in his hands, an itch to throw it out, start it over entirely in shades of red, especially now that Dean’s probably seen it.

He doesn’t need Dean’s pity.

Getting to his feet, he goes up the stairs, worried despite himself about what he’ll find inside. Dean knows better than to touch his paintings, but they hadn’t parted on friendly terms last night, and Castiel wonders if Dean might have been angry enough to smash his studio, rip it apart.

Castiel takes a deep breath as he pushes the door to his studio open, but at first glance, nothing has changed, and he’s almost disappointed at how anticlimactic this was, even though the lack of change means that Dean respected Castiel’s wishes and left everything as it was.

Wait.

Not everything.

In the center of the room, where Castiel’s _Crying Man_ should be, is _Home_ , out from under its tarp and definitely not where Castiel left it. Heart racing, Castiel turns around and shuts the door behind him, suspecting that _Crying Man_ will be here.

Sure enough, when he lifts the tarp, he sees his latest work, still unfinished, staring back out at him.

Dean found _Home_.

God, Castiel had tried his best to forget it was even there, that he’d even painted it, but Dean had found it, taken it out, and put it front and center.

Castiel replaces the tarp over _Crying Man_ and turns to look at _Home_.

It’s terrifying, looking at the painting and knowing that Dean has looked it over too, that Dean—liked it? He apparently liked it enough to put it in the middle of the room, where Castiel couldn’t possibly miss it. After a quick survey of the room, Castiel finds that none of the other paintings have moved—only these two have swapped places.

Castiel’s eyes begin to tear up, and he makes his way over to his stool, right in front of his favorite painting.

That’s Dean’s answer, isn’t it? Stop crying, because we’re home. And we’re staying home.

The phone starts ringing downstairs, and Castiel feels a weight lift from his chest. He laughs even as the bright greens and yellows and blues of _Home_ begin to blur, a tear slipping from his eye, and the phone just keeps ringing.

He calls Dean back ten minutes later.

“God, you’re an idiot, _and_ an asshole,” Dean says.

“Of course I am. It’s why you love me,” Castiel replies.

Dean’s disbelieving laughter sounds a lot like forever.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by ["Poison & Wine"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xcHI2uNHrvQ) by The Civil Wars. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision to sit down and write this today, but I actually came up with the vague idea for it (the "feels" for it, if you will) back in November of last year.


End file.
